


Our Own Personal Golden Age

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Gotham City - Freeform, M/M, SuperWonderBat AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: Barry’s muscles ache.The knots in his deltoids fight for attention over the burn of strained obliques and quadriceps inundated lactic acid after a long, successful night of crusading under his cape. The night feels long and endless, even as the first traces of murky blue colour the Gotham skyline low in the horizon. The stone under Barry’s fingers is cold and unforgiving as he perches on the rooftop, back bowed and head hung low.Soon, dawn will break, and the illusion of safety will once again be restored to the city Barry calls home.A ColdWestAllen SuperWonderBat AU





	Our Own Personal Golden Age

**Author's Note:**

> Getting this in just under the wire for ColdWestAllen Week. I've been really busy working on other projects, but I didn't want the week to go by without doing anything given that I'm running it. Hope you enjoy my take on the Day Two prompt, 40s. When thinking 1940s I instantly thought "Golden Age of Comics" and who was more iconic during the Golden Age but Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this fic! If you do, a kudos and comment are always appreciated!

Barry’s muscles ache. 

The knots in his deltoids fight for attention over the burn of strained obliques and quadriceps inundated lactic acid after a long, successful night of crusading under his cape. The night feels long and endless, even as the first traces of murky blue colour the Gotham skyline low in the horizon. The stone under Barry’s fingers is cold and unforgiving as he perches on the rooftop, back bowed and head hung low. 

Soon, dawn will break, and the illusion of safety will once again be restored to the city Barry calls home. He stares down at the alley below and imagines it bathed in sunshine, wonders if the bloodstains have ever fully come out of the old, cracked stone, or if a person looked closely, they’d still be able to see traces of evidence from the night Nora Allen lost her life, and Henry Allen lost his freedom. 

_ “Leave me alone.” _

The sharp, panicked voice carries over the empty silence of the night. Barry tenses, breathes heavy through his nose, and braces himself for the inevitable pain that rips through his shoulder as he unsheathes the grappling hook from his utility belt, propels it across the chasm of the sleepy street below, and jumps from the ledge, swinging into action. 

The scene he finds is that of a woman, distraught and clutching her dress where the fabric is torn at her chest, several buttons loose, others still lost to the ground at her feet where one shoe is snapped at the heel, her ankle purple and angry. Barry sees the pointed crest of her brassiere and averts his eyes quickly, landing them instead on the assailants surrounding her. 

They’re presentable young men, slacks pressed and hair neatly trimmed under the brims of their flat caps. The van with its open doors parked haphazardly on the curb has no license plate, and Barry clenches his teeth until his jaw is as sore as the rest of him.

Gotham has always had its villains, but a recent increase in kidnapping and human trafficking has Barry on edge. Three times already, he’s arrived too late to save vulnerable women stolen from Gotham’s streets. Once such time, he was able to give chase, and only stopped once his legs gave out from under him, and the blood from ruptured blisters soaked through his boots. 

“Shit, boys, it’s The Bat,” hisses one of the assailants through his teeth at his compatriots in crime, the first of the bunch to notice Barry slinking up from the shadows. 

It takes all of Barry’s effort to dodge when the barrels of their pistols take aim. It’s suddenly hard to remember the last time he got a proper night’s sleep, exhaustion taking root in every bone. It’s a freight train, a wrecking ball, hitting him full force and overtaking his senses. The woman shrieks as the criminals fire their guns and the noise rails against Barry’s skull like a caged animal.  

Still, Barry grits his teeth and sets to work, going low and tacking the nearest gunman to the ground, his shoulder burning as it slams into the man’s solar plexus, then again as they both topple to the ground. They grapple for a moment, Barry taking an elbow to the nose for his trouble. His mouth tastes of copper as his lips purse to hold back his scream. 

One comes up from behind to grab Barry around the neck as another grabs the woman by the elegantly set waves of her hair and hauls her toward the van, howling and screaming as her bruised ankle kicks at the ground in a feeble attempt at escape. 

Barry bucks, reeling back and slamming the assailant on his back against the rough brick of the nearest building. The force knocks the little remaining air from Barry’s lungs, and he stumbles, hands bracing against his knees, as he sucks in greedy breathes and tries to clear the film of fog from across his eyes. 

“Somebody, help,” screams the woman, the panic in her voice freezing Barry’s blood in his veins. A part of him – a terrible, selfish part – hears her call out for someone other than Batman and takes it like a knife to the gut. Because he’s failed. Because he isn’t strong enough. 

Wasn’t fast enough. 

It’s enough of an adrenaline rush to get him upright again, and he slams the point of his elbow into the next assailant's throat when he rushes him. Barry takes one step forward before the next fires his pistol and hot, burning pain sears through his left bicep. The body armour reduces the damage, but Barry still feels blood slick the inside of the suit.  

He’s helpless to stop the woman from being dragged away while the assailants are armed, faced suddenly with the impossible choice of saving her life, or saving his own. The night feels darker now than it’s ever been, even as daylight begins to break, lighting the sky up in swaths of salmon and red.  

That’s when Barry hears it, the unmistakable sound of a disturbance in the air. The wind picks up, teasing the skin under the edges of Barry’s costume where they’re sticky with sweat and burning to the touch. He turns his head to look over his shoulder and seems them cresting on the horizon like the first rays of morning light. 

They’re unmistakable, effigies of hope and justice cloaked in red and gold and blue. 

“Look, up in the sky,” shouts one of the assailants. They falter in their tracks, even the man with his victim by the hair. 

“It’s a bird,” exclaims one.

Then another, “it’s a plane!” 

“It’s Superman,” hollers the would-be abductor, releasing his grip on the woman and scrambling back like he’s been burnt. 

“It’s Wonder Woman,” Barry hears the woman utter through broken sobs, the relief palpable in her voice, and it stings like the bullet in his arm long enough to settle as shame in his gut. 

One of the criminals raises his pistol and fires as Superman and Wonder Woman come in to land. Fear seizes Barry’s chest, though he’s fought at their sides enough to know the bullets will bounce from Superman’s skin just as Wonder Woman will deflect them with her gauntlets. 

The criminal reels back in horror, tripping over his own feet and landing hard against the sidewalk, scrambling madly toward the van and waving for the others to follow on their heels. Word of Superman and Wonder Woman’s invulnerability has long been on the tongues of Gotham’s criminal underground and in the headlines of the national gazettes, but Barry knows first hand that seeing is believing, and how truly terrifying seeing can be. 

Still, the brave – or especially foolhardy – among them, don’t head the request. Some fire their guns and others charge them head on. Barry watches through the fog in his vision as Wonder Woman’s lasso glows in her hand while Superman purses his lips and knocks them all back with the power of his breath alone. 

He must black out, because the next thing Barry knows, he’s braced against the rough brick of a nearby building while the grinding shriek of metal under inhumanly strong hands rouses him with a start. He watches as Superman manipulates the metal of the van under his hands to trap the criminals inside while Wonder Woman helps the traumatized woman to her feet. 

Barry takes a step forward, trying to join them, but fumbles over his tired, aching feet. In the space of a heartbeat, Superman is at his side bracing him, the heat of his body overwhelming against Barry’s chilled, clammy skin under his suit. 

“Are you alright?” Superman asks. His voice is tight and pitched, just shy of nasal and brassy in a way that feels safe and familiar. 

“I’ll be fine,” Barry girts out, despite every word causing him great effort. 

“He’s bleeding,” Wonder Woman says, warm and smooth but also worried. Barry’s face feels tight from the dried blood under his nose and the wound in his arm is throbbing in time with his skull. 

“I’ll wait here for the police,” Superman offers. “You can make sure he gets home safely.” 

Barry scoffs, though it makes him grimace. “I can take myself home.” 

Wonder Woman frowns and shoots him a withering look, her dark brown eyes sharp and steely. “You can’t take yourself across the sidewalk. Don’t be ridiculous.” 

He tries protesting again, but doesn’t so much as get his mouth open before Superman drags him forward and into Wonder Woman’s waiting arms. She grabs his good arm and slings it around her shoulder, then leans in close to whisper, “hold on tight,” seconds before the ground disappears from under Barry’s feet. 

She takes them to Allen Manor, through the Bat Cave and up the elevator, never once letting go of Barry’s weight. When they finally pile into Barry’s bedroom, the needles on the clock face read quarter past seven, and the daylight streaming through the open windows hurts Barry’s eyes. 

“Thanks for coming,” Barry says, the words ground out through gritted teeth, as she sets him gently down on his bed. Her fingers a warm and steady as they pry under his cowl, drawing his mask up and away. The cool air of the room is like heaven. 

“You should have called,” she chastises. 

She’s gone from his sight before he can respond, but he hears her moving around in the en suite and calls out his response. “Operator, connect me to Paradise Island.” 

He gets a wet cloth thrown in his face for his trouble.

“I’ve been in Metropolis these past months and you’ve known as much,” she reminds him. Grabbing the cloth from his hands she dips it in the bowl of warm, soapy water she’s retrieved. Gently, she begins to wipe the blood from under Barry’s nose. 

“Besides,” she adds, sounding far away as she concentrates on her work. “Even if I’m away with the Amazons, you can always call Len.” 

“Metropolis needs Superman,” Barry reminds her. 

She grabs him squarely by the chin with the same sudden intensity of hers that always takes him by surprise and makes him fall a little more in love. 

“Leonard Snart and Iris West need Barry Allen,” she says firmly. The way heat burns in her eyes, Barry is apt to believe her. 

Barry casts his eyes down. “I know that,” he tells Iris with all the sincerity he can muster. “I need you, too.” 

They’re quiet again as Iris wipes the worst of the blood and sweat from his face. She helps him peel back the costume and digs the slug out of his arm, fingers grabbed tightly around the very end that hasn’t broken skin. When the water turns murky beyond use, she leads him to the en suite with a hand around his waist and draws a bath. 

Barry is weak and sore, but he insists on returning the favour, hands falling to the clasps that keep her bodice in place, hidden behind the waistband of her star-spotted skirt. He removes the headpiece gingerly from her head and sets in on the vanity, then places her gauntlets and lasso beside it. The rest of her costume falls to the ground along with the rest of his, and the bath nearly flows over as he pulls her in behind him. 

That’s where Leonard finds them, Barry half-asleep with his head pressed to Iris’ glistening shoulder as she lathers the dark strands of his hair. They’ve changed the water twice and it’s finally running clear when she rinses the soap away. 

“How’s the woman?” Barry asks, his voice a tired rasp, one eye scarcely pried open at Len’s arrival. 

Solemnly, Leonard nods. “Shaken, but she’s being looked after. It’s a good thing you came by her,” he says. 

Barry huffs. “Even better you came by me,” he says. 

Len shrugs with one shoulder. “You wear yourself too thin, Barry,” he replies finally, and Barry gets the impression from the furrow in his brow Len wants to be saying other, less grave things. “You’re not like us. You’re not a god.” 

Barry chuckles and shakes his head. This feels like the start of a long familiar argument, but he’s too tired to fight right now. “Neither are you, Space Man,” he says. “And anyway, I have more money than God. I feel just fine throwing my hat in the ring. Someone has to keep Gotham safe.” 

“We’re just worried about who’s keeping you safe,” Iris remind him, but doesn’t press the issue any further. Len seems to take the cue from her and lets it lie. He tugs at the zipper between his shoulder blades and pulls his costume away, the bright insignia rippling with the fabric until it’s unrecognizable. 

Leonard told them once that in the language of his people, that was the symbol for hope. Len feels like hope, even when he doesn’t bear the insignia on his chest. He feels warm and solid and hopeful as he climbs into the bath at Barry’s back and works his hands over the knots in his shoulders. 

“You don’t always have to work alone,” Len whispers, his soft lips brushing against the skin at the nap of Barry’s neck. 

“Maybe I won’t,” Barry murmurs, though it feels more placating than honest. It’s hard to imagine anyone fighting by his side. Anyone other than Leonard or Iris, but they belong to Metropolis and to Paradise Island before anyone or anything, him included, and even if they won’t admit it, Barry knows. 

“What about a sidekick?” Iris offers. Her fingers trail across his chest. 

Barry shudders. 

“No sidekicks.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](https://asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> (and if you wanna see what's been keeping me so busy, check out my [youtube channel](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCE8SeN1FADcQh20PzP7lT6g))


End file.
